The red artist
by Megaphone.Kills.You
Summary: The second he laid his eyes on this beautiful red splattered over the walls, he was addicted. He needed more of that color. So the artist wanders the streets and paints them his favorite color.


„Don't move from here! Wait until I or someone else gets you!"

The man's voice sounds frantic, borderline insane and the little child tilts his head in confusion. A hand comes forward and ruffles his already ever-so-messy hair. The slightly chubby face almost scrunches up, but it's suppressed, he feels that this is a gesture to be appreciated.

"You're a good boy, aren't you?"

The boy nods his head and takes in the scared look in daddy's eyes. A frown mars his childish features and he is a little alarmed. Daddy isn't afraid of anything or anyone. If there is someone in his way, daddy simply takes out a weapon and eliminates the problem.

"That's my boy. Now, take care of your younger brother."

It sounds like a good bye to him. The younger sibling at his side stirs slightly, yet is unaware of any implications or secrets daddy's words carry. The older child stares up to daddy and he can look right through him.

"You're a good boy. My little genius boy. You will do as I tell you, won't you?

Once more, the warm hand messes up his hair in display of affection and as a parting gift. The son nods his head affirmative once more and crawls into the cupboard, cradling the rather confused sibling into his arms.

"Fare well, father."

The door is closed and the two children are drowned in darkness. Tonight it's strangely suffocating and cold, maybe the heater is broke, maybe he should repair it.

The sound of a gun blasting disrupts the silence.

The older brother counts the seconds, minutes passing by. He mutters them under his breath and he knows that when he has reached five minutes, daddy should open the cupboard and get them.

He's been counting for five hours now.

His little brother has been drifting in and out of consciousness, but even he realized at some point that the time limit had been exceeded. Why was nobody coming? _Five minutes, not longer. _For a second, the mad idea that he could disobey daddy just this once crossed his mind. Disobeying? The boy shook his head viciously. No! he is a good boy.

But his brother's silent pleas and the curiosity and maybe a sense of defiance are making his resolution falter. Just a peek, a peek won't hurt anyone. Besides, they can't stay in the cupboard for much longer. Hunger is gnawing at his resolution.

With trembling hands, he pushes the door slightly ajar and tells the younger one to stay back. _And don't you peek. _Shaking with excitement, the sense of danger thick in the air, he slowly slips out of his shelter.

Black eyes survey his environment as his small feet stumble further ahead. The ground beneath him is slippery and every step is a struggle.

His heart thumps widely in his chest, crushing his ribs from the inside.

Red.

It's on the walls and on the furniture and on the floor and on his feet and it's seeping out of the body in the middle of the room. Every breath tastes metallic.

Shuffling further and further, he breathes the red in and it's everything that he sees and feels and tastes. Red.  
>Carefully, with childish curiosity, his fingertips dance over the wallpaper, smearing the beautiful color and staining his hands.<p>

Somewhere in the background, his brother cries silently. The older one stares at the blood soaked corpse and he understands that what he'd done was a mistake. He shouldn't have disobeyed, he is no longer a good boy. He should've listened to daddy. Daddy always knew best, why hadn't he listened to him?  
>His mind is too numb to respond to the sight, but his body knows exactly what to do and tears well up in his eyes.<p>

He ushers his brother out of the cupboard and covers his eyes. No need for him to see this carnage.

It's blessing and curse at the same time. How can he deprive his brother of this beautiful sight, of this beautiful color?

* * *

><p>The woman tries to hold his hand to guide him, but he wretches away from her in time and confidently enters the room by himself. He understands that it's her duty to care for you after daddy's departure, yet he won't let her baby him like he is some snotty little child. He's already six years old and it may be his first day in school, but he is not a coward.<p>

The new teacher smiles at him and he takes a seat next to a boy with long brown hair and an idiotic grin. They take turns introducing themselves. Mito Uzumaki. Kasumi Chouwa. Kenji Hokoshi. Hashirama Senju. His turn.

"My name is Madara Uchiha. Nice to meet you."

* * *

><p>The people around him are stupid, he decides. Most of them struggle with the easiest of tasks, calling for the teacher to aid their pathetic selves. This is not how Madara imagined school to be like. Not really at least, he had already anticipated to be the most intelligent student.<p>

Lost in thought, Madara cuts various shapes into a red piece of paper with his red pair of scissors. The other boys are folding paper planes and draw silly things on them with blue pens, throwing the planes at the black-haired boy's head.

"Madara is a girl! Seriously, what's up with her weird obsession with red? Even Kasumi isn't as girly as she is!"

Imbeciles.

The urge to facepalm is barely suppressed and he instead lets out an exasperated sigh. Why, why is he stuck with such morons who could never possibly grasp the beauty that was red? This wonderful color is wasted on them. At least he, Madara, can fully appreciate this gift.

In fact, he feels like he needs more red around and like his classmates need a little lesson. Maybe he could open their eyes? Miracles do happen, after all.

Daddy said that sometimes you had to break the law in favor of the greater good. And Madara always does what daddy said.

Madara is a good boy.

The Uchiha rearranges their faces and marvels at how their skin is suddenly covered with this lovely color. He needs more. More. Blood is caking his knuckles and the tears of pain of the whining brats wash away the beautiful trails of red, so he leaves the scene and doesn't wash his hands of hours, simply staring at the color on his hands.

* * *

><p>The sirens of the police cars outside are blaring loudly and Madara cautiously moves the ratty curtain aside to take a peek outside. The unknowing policemen drive past the building, following his false trace like the mindless sheep they are. A chuckle with an edge of insanity to it escapes his lips at the stupidity. Again, his superiority was proven.<p>

Yet time is not exactly on his side, so he needs to return to business. His long black hair swishes behind him as he whirls around to inspect his latest masterpiece.

Red.

It's on the walls and on the furniture and on the floor and on his feet and it's seeping out of the body in the middle of the room. Every breath tastes metallic.

A sense of déjà-vu washes over him and his lips curl in a smile. Beautiful. Perfection.

It's almost like that day, only with a different atmosphere. He never quite manages to restore those feelings, the only flaw in his art. Oh well, one day. One day. He wishes he could stay a little longer to admire this scene, but he job always comes first and also, it won't take the police long to figure out his call was a ruse and some neighbor would unwittingly burst into the apartment and find the corpse and call the sheep.

They're calling him an insane murderer, a psychopath. They're bringing it in the papers, calling him a nutcase and other bad names. No, he's merely a professional with a love for fine arts. They just can't understand his art like they don't understand Deidara's art or Sasori's art. Just like his old classmates. And for his art, he was determined to do everything. If there is someone in his way, he simply takes out a weapon and eliminates the problem. His brother had become a piece of art, too. A fine one at that, red, red, red, tainting the white of skin and mingling with tears of betrayal.

He affectionately strokes the gun in his right hand and giggles, already thinking about his next order. He took after daddy. Madara wishes he could show daddy what he had achieved because of him so far. He'd be so proud of the good boy.

* * *

><p><strong>Another One-Shot to keep me going. My writer's block for my multi-chaptered stories is so strong, not even Naruto would believe it.<br>Anyway, I always thought red was the color that suits Madara best and somehow, it turned into this. **


End file.
